The Second Chance
by Jennyyy
Summary: Tag to S1 E1. My take on what would have happened if Constance had not saved D'artagnan in the battle. Please review, it would mean a lot!


**Hi everyone! Sorry its been such a long time, life got crazy with exams and moving out, but I'm back now! I'm aware my last story wasn't finished, but its been such a long time I don't know where to go with it, or how to finish it, so I think it's just going to have to finish where it was. If inspiration strikes maybe I will add a finishing chapter! I'm back with a little one shot that just came to me while watching the first ever episode earlier.**

 **This is my take on what would have happened if Constance hadn't saved D'artagnan in the battle with Gaudet.**

 **The Second Chance**

D'artagnan stared down the barrel of the gun.

The day had been full of fear; fear that he would not find his father's killer, fear that Athos, the musketeer his comrades cared so deeply for would die for his mistake, and the deep- rooted fear he would not admit to anyone; the fear that these Musketeers would abandon him once they had what the needed from him and leave him to face his demons alone.

However, all these fears faded and were replaced with an all-encompassing terror as D'artagnan stared into the empty void of the gun pointed directly at his face. Suddenly, he was not a man, a soldier, looking for vengeance; he was just a boy who wanted his father.

His father had once told him a tale of how while ploughing a field, a horse had spooked at the sight of a passing carriage and reared up in front of him. As the hooves plunged down towards his head, Alexandre D'artagnan's life had flashed before his very eyes. He had told D'artagnan that the most vivid vision had been of his wedding day, and D'artagnan's birth.

In that moment, D'artagnan knew his father had either fabricated the truth, or he was a coward, for all he felt was fear, and sadness that his life was over. Time seemed to slow, and he closed his eyes, knowing that there was nothing he could do; it was impossible to escape the inevitable. At least he would see his parents again.

THE MUSKETEERS

As always, Aramis was thoroughly enjoying the fight. Nothing could beat the fire that coursed through his veins at the near- death experience, or the way his senses sharpened to anticipate every attack. Every time he fought, he knew that God had set him on the right path; he was born for this.

However, as he dispatched his latest victim and turned to find another, the fire in his veins was replaced with ice that momentarily rooted him to the spot. One of Gaudet's men was standing, his teeth bared in triumph, with his musket pointing directly at D'artagnan's face. The boy seemed resigned to his fate, his eyes squeezed shut with a look of absolute terror on his face.

Aramis was not known as the best marksman in the regiment for nothing; without thinking, his musket was aimed for the man's head and he pulled the trigger just as the soldier's finger tightened on his own trigger.

Aramis watched in satisfaction as the soldier fell backwards into the mud. This was a reflex shot he would be able to boast about for months; it was always talk of battle that impressed the ladies most. He waited for D'artagnan to turn and profusely thank him for saving his life; hopefully, he could save some of his thanks for the evening, when they were in the tavern surrounded by beautiful women who would hear and be overly impressed. However, the smile slipped off his face the moment D'artagnan turned and staggered a few steps towards him.

THE MUSKETEERS

A sharp pain had radiated through D'artagnan's stomach as he watched the soldier in front of him fall, no doubt down to Aramis' fine marksmanship. However, it was too little, too late, D'artagnan thought bitterly as he looked down at the fast spreading patch of red on his shirt. Had his father felt this same pain when he was shot? Was he alone for long to endure it because his son was too busy trying to be a hero to find his dying father? The Gascon had heard that often when a soldier was shot, the shock would be so much that they would not feel the wound. He supposed, just like the idea of your life flashing before your eyes, it was just a myth. The reality was painful and terrifying, and not something D'artagnan was willing to go through alone.

The Gascon refused to let his knees give out as they were trying to do. Instead, he slowly turned to see the look on Aramis' face turn from satisfaction to horror as he took in the patch of red on D'artagnan's shirt. Was this the last expression on D'artagnan's face that his father had seen? This look of pained horror? Too bad he couldn't have dredged up a smile, D'artagnan thought bitterly as he took a shaky step forward. He would have wanted for his father to take the memory of a smile with him, not sadness and fear.

Another step towards Aramis seemed to shake the marksman out of his stupor, and he rushed forwards to catch D'artagnan just as his knees gave out. Just before the darkness overwhelmed him, the Gascon heard a panicked voice call out his name.

"I'm coming, Father" he whispered to the stars above him. "I knew I would not leave you for long." With that, he allowed the encroaching shadows to draw a veil over his vision.

THE MUSKETEERS

" _I was thinking the stomach. Death is inevitable, but he'll bleed for hours first."_

Aramis' earlier taunts rang sickeningly in his ears as he pulled up D'artagnan's shirt to see the small hole spurting blood in his abdomen. Luckily, there was a matching hole in his back, meaning the ball had passed straight through, but his olive skin had already taken on a sickly pale pallour, and his eyelids had fluttered shut, both of which Aramis knew to be bad signs.

"PORTHOS!" he yelled, reaching for the medical supplies he always kept for emergencies in his jacket. He heard, rather than saw, the big man stride up and stop short at the sight of Aramis attempting to clean D'artagnan's wounds with a small measure of wine.

"Wha' do you need?" he asked shortly; experience had taught him to speak as little as possible while Aramis was working, and to attempt to push any emotions to one side whilst a member of their group was in danger.

Was D'artagnan a member of their group? He had certainly proven useful, and now Gaudet was safely unconscious and tied up, Athos would be saved from the firing squad. But at such a large cost, Porthos thought bitterly, anger rising up and threatening to overwhelm him at the injustice of such a bright spark being extinguished so soon, before they had fully got to know him.

"Put your hand here" Aramis instructed, demonstrating how Porthos had to pinch the skin closed so he could sew it up. Porthos did as instructed, but knew as well as Aramis did that there was little to no hope of the boy surviving.

They worked together in silence for a while, Aramis eventually sitting back and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Tha's some of your best work yet" Porthos grudgingly admitted, trying to lighten the mood. "Perhaps you can move onto sewing the Queen's dresses next." The usual banter fell of deaf ears, as Aramis was already trying to work out how to get D'artagnan back to the Garrison where they had access to a proper physician and medicine.

"Constance's husband will have a carriage…" he muttered to himself before sprinting off with a "make sure he doesn't move when he regains consciousness!" called over his shoulder in Porthos' direction.

THE MUSKETEERS

Constance's eyes had filled with tears when Aramis told her what had happened, but she wasted no time in rushing home and bringing a cart of her husband's back with her to transport D'artagnan to the Garrison. In that time, D'artagnan had begun to shake with a combination of shock, blood loss and cold, so once Porthos had gently laid him down in the cart, the two musketeers covered him in their cloaks, and Aramis stayed with him to keep an eye on him on the short journey to the Garrison. Gaudet had been unceremoniously slung as far away from D'artagnan as possible.

Aramis had hoped that the Gascon would remain unconscious for the journey, as the bumpy roads would certainly be agony, but the stubborn Gascon refused to do as he was told and began to stir as they neared Paris. Aramis watched as his brow wrinkled in discomfort, and then his whole face scrunched up in pain and a small whimper escaped as the cart rocked through a pothole. His eyes instantly snapped open.

"Sorry" he whispered, a look of shame in his eyes.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of" Aramis said firmly. "Every man is allowed a moment of weakness, it is what defines us as humans. You know, the first time I got injured- and do not mention this to the ladies- I cried for my Father at least five times because I thought I was going to die."

Aramis instantly cursed at his choice of words as a flash of something deeper than physical pain crossed D'artagnan's face.

"I'm sorry, that was a poor choice of words" Aramis said softly. "Losing someone you care about is never easy, I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No- no, its fine" D'artagnan rasped. "Its just… its like I've just repeated his death, but from his perspective, and I keep repeating my actions over and over, and I now know I should have acted differently, looked at him differently, said something different to comfort him, but I can never go back and now I have to live with the knowledge that he has taken a horrible image of me to his grave, and his last few moments with me were not happy."

That small tirade had clearly taken what little strength D'artagnan had, and his eyes fluttered closed again.

"I am sure the memories he took with him were not defined by your last moments, but by the happiness you have shared in the past. Anybody would be proud to have you as a son." Aramis said softly, unsure as to whether D'artagnan had heard him. He was answered by a faint smile before D'artagnan's face grew lax again.

THE MUSKETEERS

Once they reached the Garrison, the group parted ways; Constance went back to her husband's house with Aramis' reassurance that she would be informed immediately if D'artagnan's condition changed, Porthos took the now conscious Gaudet to the Chatalet to exchange for Athos' freedom, and Aramis carried D'artagnan into the infirmary with the help of the Musketeers in the yard. The physician was called, and once Aramis had given a report of D'artagnan's injuries, he was ushered out to wait outside like a naughty schoolboy waiting for a punishment. Aramis did not mind; he knew better than most that a physician needed quiet, and D'artagnan's wound was by no means an easy one to treat.

That was how Aramis found himself pacing around the yard a while later, when the sound of hoofbeats caught his attention. To his relief, Athos and Porthos dismounted.

"Am I glad to see you" Aramis smiled, hitting Athos on the back.

"Yes, looks like I cannot shake you two off that easily" said Athos dryly. "I hear the boy I have to thank for my freedom is injured?"

Aramis felt a spark of anger at Athos' offhand comment. "His name is D'artagnan, and yes he currently has a hole in his stomach because he wanted justice for you, and for his father."

Aramis regretted his words when a look of shame and sadness crossed Athos' normally stoic face. "Apologies, mon ami. It has been a long day, I did not mean that to sound so harsh."

"Your words are justified, Aramis" sighed Athos. "The boy is too young to die, just like…" he paused and looked away. "I would like to see him, if I can."

Although filled with curiosity, Porthos and Aramis did not comment on whatever Athos was not telling them.

"The physician did not want to be disturbed" Aramis said. "I think it is best that we wait until…" He was cut off by the door opening and the physician coming out.

They knew by the look on his face.

THE MUSKETEERS

"I have done what I can, and credit must go to Monsieur Aramis for prolonging his life, but the boy is bleeding internally. There is nothing I can do. I am afraid you must go and say your goodbyes, he will not live through the night."

Athos heard the physician's statement, but could not believe it. D'artagnan had stormed into the Garrison, the same fire and passion in his eyes that Thomas had possessed, and kept up with him in a duel. In those few minutes, he had felt more alive than he had since his wife had murdered his brother all those years ago. The boy's temper, and obvious grief, called out to Athos in a way he could not put into words. He saw the boy becoming a recruit, earning his pauldron, fitting into the trio in a way that no one ever could, and becoming his brother. He did not know how he knew this, but he knew it would happen.

But now it would not, because of him. Athos stormed blindly into the infirmary, stopping short at the sight of the small, pale Gascon in the bed. His mind flashed back to Thomas, lying in a much similar pattern on the floor of his home, and he backed away. He could not form a bond with someone who was going to die, not again.

And yet the bond was already there.

It inexplicably drew him towards the bed, forcing him to rest his hand on top of the Gascon's. He had not had a chance to say goodbye to Thomas; perhaps this was his second chance? Athos cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I… I do not know if you can hear me D'artagnan, but I am Athos. I must thank you most humbly for clearing my name. The physician said we must say our goodbyes, but as I am sure you would know if we had the fortune of getting to know each other better, words are most definitely not my forte. So… just know that you have my thanks. If, by any chance, you can hear me, I would be honoured to get to know you better, but I do not need to do that to call you a brother." With that, Athos' voice broke and he went to pull his hand away, embarrassed. What was wrong with him? As a soldier, he was used to loss and death, but this boy had slipped under his amour, and somehow, with just one meeting, earned a place in the man's impenetrable heart.

However, as Athos went to pull his hand away, D'artagnan caught and gripped it. Surprised, Athos turned back to see a faint smile cross the boy's face.

"You're welcome" he breathed. "always… wanted to have a brother."

Athos cleared his throat in an attempt to clear the lump that had formed there.

"You may have brothers here, but you have a family waiting for you in Heaven" said Aramis, as he and Porthos entered the room and slipped a crucifix around D'artagnan's neck. They all stood around the Gascon's bed, Athos continuing to hold the boy's hand until it went limp and his face grew lax.

Aramis put an ear to his chest.

"He's gone" he whispered, and the men all bowed their heads in a moment of remembrance of what was, and what could have been.

THE MUSKETEERS

D'artagnan was back on the farm with his mother and father. Life was as it should be; they planted and harvested crops year after year, had family meals and shared a lot of laughter and happy memories. Years went by; they never aged, never got sick, there were no financial problems; life was perfect. And yet there was something missing, something D'artagnan could not put his finger on.

Time was different, but he knew he had been there for a long time when they arrived. Three men, dressed in leathers, with swords and pistols on their belts. D'artagnan and his family were sitting outside eating their evening meal when they saw them walking up the path. Startled, his father stood up.

"Soldiers!" he said in shock.

"No, Father" D'artagnan replied, a broad smile on his face, reciprocated by the men as they caught sight of the young man.

"Brothers."

 **I hope you enjoyed that, and that it wasn't too mean or OOC! I wasn't intending for it to be a death fic, but that's just the way the story went so I decided to roll with it! Please review, and feel free to leave constructive criticism, I love to hear what people think and to know how I can improve my writing!**


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